His Judas Bride

by Shehanne Moore

  He grasped her chin and continued dabbing, such irritation glinting in his eyes she could tell he was completely unable to determine which was worse, her being amenable, or her being downright awkward. It made it very difficult for her to continue, when her body already contracted in protest, but she did so anyway.

  “That you have come in here today and found me unwell. But if you would just let me, if you—”

  “Uh.” His hand stilled its dabbing, as he turned his blazing glare on her for a second. “After what you tried to do to my clean tunic, do you think I’m letting you anywhere near this one? Well?”

  She shook her head. “No.” Although she was hardly a child to be spoken to like this, it just did not seem wise to say so, if she was somehow to save this. She just should have known that only a damn fool would risk his wrath when she could barely walk and now a fever gnawed.

  “Well then.”

  “It’s—it’s just…”

  Another still. This one accompanied by a deep sigh. The slightest melting of his glacial stare, if only by a drip. “What?”

  “You are being fierce.”

  “I am, am I?” He raised his brows. Not a smile. Not a smile exactly from those sensuous lips of his and yet those grooves in his cheeks dinted. “Maybe if I am it’s because you need it. Here.” He reached around the side of the bed. “Drink this.”

  She wasn’t going to argue. The consequences would be a disaster if she did. She held the cool lip of the water flagon to her lips as if she were a heathen who’d wandered in the desert for forty years. He was right, about this much anyway. Her throat was dry as a crisped leaf. Drier.

  “Steady, Princess.”

  He grasped the flagon. Now that other thing, about her needing to be kept in line? By whom had always been the rankling issue. Yes. She snagged a breath, mindlessly, her gaze flitting to the knitted brows, so furrowed, to her way of thinking. What would they be like if he didn’t have any concern for her? They would be smooth.

  She needed something other than the way he held the rim of the flagon to her lips, easing it back carefully so she didn’t gulp too much, to dilute his effect on her, didn’t she? Certainly with regard to these words. That her first thought that she’d like to see him try was not her only thought.

  For the sake of her father’s plans, she must put such thoughts aside and sit quietly watching as the Wolf knelt on the shingle. She shouldn’t think as he busied himself with the sticks Dug fetched him for the fire, him saying she needed to be kept in line was different from the way other men had said it. He was different. Because he gave. So anything would only be with the best of intentions.

  How ironic that if she were to let a man in—and she wasn’t going to let a man in because she’d nowhere to let him in to—that the one, the one whose shadow she could most comfortably stand in, when he took such care of her…well.

  She’d just needed to sit quiet to see it. The honeyed oatmeal that bubbled to brose in the pot. The brush of his fingers as he tucked the fur around her shoulders, as he handed her the wooden bowl. The food, surprisingly good for a man. Would he do these things either if his intention was to put her out of here?

  His intention was not an issue according to what she read in those burning stares. Some were a recollection of himself when he caught her staring at him, when he reached to take away the bowl. Shame nipped her heart.

  For the sake of her father’s plans she must reinstate this. Earlier, having determined there was going to be a next time with this man, she had known she must meet it. She had thought to do so by putting every obstacle in his way. But how logical was that when trying to muzzle him was a bit like holding back the tide? She had learned long ago, her body was not her soul.

  It was an awful lot better to let him have her body than let him anywhere near her soul. When her ankle and her head throbbed and her limbs felt heavy as hammers, it was what she was in danger of doing here.

  So now their fingers brushed, she should search his face. She should, when his mouth was as close as this, edge her arms around his neck.

  This was not making sure of him. This was making sure of her.

  Before she could press herself against his body, he twisted around. There was no denying he was a man who liked to take control. She was not surprised to find herself on her back. The way his tongue edged forth was something she determined not to fight. Not this time. Her body he could have, as often as he liked. She parted her lips.

  It was so different, the honesty of it, that she reached to hold the sides of his face. His mouth was delicious. Sweet and hot. But milkily so. Like immersing herself in nectar, like… Hot tension built between her legs. Her mind emptied of like, even before his fingers tangled in her hair, the sensation sending a bolt of heat through her, a heat matched by his mouth. She wanted this man’s mouth on her body, as if he licked honey from her skin. Morven was lucky to have had him. And after the way he had piled Kara’s clothes on the bed, so was she, in a way.

  It was better to give him this, just do it, now he straddled her, his heat like an enveloping blanket, as he tore off his tunic, than let him anywhere near her soul.

  If she enjoyed it…enjoy, now he returned to kissing her mouth, the sensation drove even that condition from her mind. In fact she swore stars exploded at the back of it. How his boots and breeches came to be removed, she’d no idea if she assisted or if he did it himself.

  But his hardness pressed against her body. She spread her thighs, wanting to feel him there, against the entrance of her sex. Even more to feel him inside her. Hot. Hard. Velvet. His mouth left her however, his lips trailing kisses down her neck, her ribs, her stomach.

  Again it wasn’t that Lachlan’s mouth had left her a stranger to this kind of pleasure, it was that this man’s acquainted her.

  Short time had passed since she determined she needed to ready herself for this encounter, and already the moan that escaped her, proved it was just as well, even if she readied herself in a different way from planned.

  When this was going to be like last night, all over again. Like earlier, only better, when this kept him away from her real core, the bit she could not give him, it was best to just descend to this hot frenzied—he raised his head—hell, actually, when what she read at the very back of his impassioned gaze was that lick of vulnerability. As if he was as adrift and confused by this as she.

  He would be, if he didn’t trust her. And this was folly enough. To worry about that now his arms came down either side of her, his breath passing over her in a feather-like caress, was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Stupid.

  When she determined this to save her core from him, why had it become more dangerous?

  * * *

  Stray specks of snow blew in through the gaps at the far end of the cave, ballooned then fell, little powdered puffs of white onto ledges and crevices. Kara knew because they flickered and hung there like her consciousness. She knew where they landed too. Because it was what she hadn’t noticed the first night she was here. The way out of the cave.

  Her awareness of the flickering specks was followed by her awareness of Jess. As in her father’s dungeon Jess. A surprising person to see, shaping from swirling flecks, glistening gloom. So real Kara snapped her head up.

  “Are you all right, Princess?”

  She wasn’t all right. Even as she sat, where a second ago she had lain hearing the soft thud of his heartbeat, she knew she wasn’t all right. Her breath tore sharply, coming in a wave. Jess. Jess was here. In this cave.

  “I—I—”

  Jess…

  “Princess.”

  …wasn’t there. A black wall was. Kara’s thoughts raced in all directions. Her heart hammered. Black wall and snow and… His hand was on her shoulder. She edged her gaze back.

  “Nothing.”

  She tried to breathe quietly but her lungs faltered—because now it wasn’t just that his hand lay on her shoulder. This last year, maybe it was around about Christmas time it had started, Jess
had begun selling her body to their gaolers, for drink. Every night.

  Not just the odd nip of whiskey, or pot of heather ale, here and there. A lot of drink. Hard drink, by the sounds of it. Because, of course, none of the women in the dungeons of Castle McGurkie had been able to see anything of one another. It was all just voices in the dark. Whispers in the black, weeping heart of that place. Whispers. And that other thing. Tears.

  So to feel the Wolf’s fingers in her hair, his knuckles brush across her forehead, when after all she’d asked Jess. When they had all of them asked her, at one time or another, calling out through the bars, Jess, what are you doing? Because there was no doubt, no doubt at all, in any of their minds, Jess would be carried out her cell in a box, the amount of rotgut whiskey she was pouring down her throat. The way she spent her nights, curled up to a bottle and whatever abusive man who swore he would take care of her.

  To think that and feel this caring coolness.

  “Is the fever back?”

  Or to hear his voice, gently questing like this. See his eyes edge her face as they sometimes did. As if he wasn’t quite sure, as if he wanted her to tell him. What exactly, she didn’t know. Or maybe it was just that she puzzled him? Well, he wasn’t abusive, was he? And she must be careful not to think so. The fever had never quite been away. Her need to forfeit his care had made it paramount she ignore it.

  It was that need now that made her say, “No. No, it was just a bad dream.”

  He stroked her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “What kind of bad dream?”

  “Just…” Her skin tightened. In that second she did feel she had a fever and it lay all along her forehead, over her skin like a tight web. “I don’t know.”

  It was better to say it. After all, she started believing he could kiss it better. He couldn’t. Not when these nightmares would always be part of her.

  That sensuous smile crooked his lips. “A bad dream. Do you know what I’m going to do about a bad dream?”

  She didn’t. Well, she did. Especially as he edged her down beside him and his hair ends tickled her face. “What?”

  “I’m going to kiss it away.”

  She just wished it was that simple. She just wished when she knew he hid things too and just maybe he did things because he didn’t want them snatched away, his smile wasn’t so sensuous and so gallant.

  Because the thing was Jess had answered Kara one night, when she was sober. Because it makes me forget. Everything. Who I am. What I’m fighting. And what I’m fighting for. When you’re trapped, you just need something to make you forget. All these things.

  Part of Kara, the part that liked to kid herself, said that wasn’t so. But the part that was honest, knew perfectly well. Maybe she’d done this initially to protect herself, because she had no choice.

  But she shouldn’t have kept doing it. For four days now. After all, she was not like Jess. And in some ways, reading what she did in this man’s eyes, all she was doing was reminding herself of that fact. This had all gotten out of hand. When it didn’t even seem to be saving her soul. She attempted to squirm free.

  The fracas erupted at the entrance to the cave before she had fully turned her face away.

  Chapter Eight

  “Son of a whore.”

  As swiftly as a snake uncoiling, Callm jerked her aside. He was on his feet in two seconds flat, frantically dragging his plaid around his bare waist in a bid to cover himself the next. Jesus Christ, how the hell could he be caught like this? Where the hell were his men? And his boots?

  “Not in there?” A voice cut in from the cave mouth. “Where is he then? I must speak with him. Out the way. I’ll wait in there till I do.”

  Meg. He cursed foully beneath his breath. Holy God. For all Wee Murdie could fell three men with a single blow of his claymore he was no match for her.

  “Shit. Son of a—give me that you damn bitch.” He tried dragging a boot out Dug’s mouth. “Now.”

  “Callm, are ye there? Is that you? Callm?”

  Maybe he could ignore her. But the sound of bone striking bone? He couldn’t hide in here and let his men be assaulted.

  He gritted his teeth. “Hell. Why not come in?”

  He sat down on the shingle and tried dragging on his other boot. If he could at least get that on his foot, this might look decent. Although his cave… His eyes swept the sea of dirty dishes and empty bottles. Dug licking at the remains of some bone. His cave all right. But not as he knew it.

  “Why were you keeping me in the cold, Callm?”

  He glanced up in time to see her scramble into the cave. Feet in her crisp new leather boots first, then the rest of her, in a snow-caked blur. He really must increase the security. Were the McGurkies but aware of it, they could be swarming over this place in a trice. All they required was a woman like Meg at their head.

  “I—I’m so sorry, man.” Wee Murdie jumped down behind her. Even in the dim light Callm could see blood trickled down his chin. “But she—she just—”

  “You see that, Wee Jeemie Murdoch? Why were you lying to me? Callm is here.”

  And not just him. Callm was suddenly sinkingly aware of the fact. How like him to forget while busy wrestling Dug for his boot.

  “My lady.”

  Meg was getting an eyeful all right. Even in the dimness of the cave he saw her part her lips.

  “It’s…it’s you. Are ye all right? I didn’t know. I—”

  He fisted his hands so hard his arms ached. Well. Of course it was her. Naked in his bed too.

  “Of course she’s all right. Maybe she makes up stories about me, it doesn’t mean they’re true.”

  It was better to say so, wasn’t it? How could he be caught like this? Never once, in the five years since he’d formed the Brotherhood of Wolves, these men who rode with him and as good as lived with him, had he been caught like this.

  Except for his initial grief over Morven never once had he lived like this either. Where the hell had the last few days gone?

  “Anything she did, she did of her own free will. Go on, Princess, you might as well admit, we might as well admit…”

  He swung around. Glanced at her. Then swung back. He paused. Did he just see that? He turned his head back again.

  All the moisture evaporated from his mouth. She didn’t even shoot him so much as a sideways glance. His heart pounded, as he looked her up and down. Dressed, completely, inexplicably. Hell. He wouldn’t shoot himself a glance either. He’d put his foot in more than his boot, hadn’t he? Co-incidentally he wondered if she wore hers beneath the turquoise gown, or was barefoot.

  “I’m fine. Yes, thank you.” She parted her lips evenly. “Your brother was kind enough to…”

  Callm thought she might have said Render me assistance when I was lost, as she moved forward. In all honestly he couldn’t tell for what swept him. Couldn’t tell how she’d managed to bundle her unruly hair into a knot at the nape of her neck either.

  “Thank God, you’re safe and well then, my lady.” Meg stepped over a pile of filthy dishes, in a swish of forest-green skirts. “Everyone’s very worried.”

  “Worried? About me?”

  “Why wouldn’t we be? Ewen is searching Lochalpin for you, right this minute as we speak. He has been for days. Ye have no idea how, in this weather, how he feared…we all feared the very worst. And then of course having to explain to your father—”

  “Ewen?”

  Of course he should have told her, instead of having her gaze fasten on him like this, as if it was all his fault Ewen did this. But there hadn’t exactly been an inch of opportunity. What with all the snow falling on the glen and everything, he realized he hadn’t thought about Ewen at all. He’d meant to. But the other things were such, only now did he remember, Lochalpin did have a situation on its hands.

  Now he did too. What the hell had possessed him exactly?

  Meg’s emerald gaze glinted as it met his. “Oh, he never told me himself he was looking. No. I don’t think he
wanted to admit to it, for some strange reason. Of course, I should have known fine that you’d have already found her, Callm. And brought her here. And, of course, with the weather being the way it is, you couldn’t send for me. Still, thank God. Now we can get on with the business of the wedding.”

  Wasn’t that just great, Callm thought, his heart giving a great thud of denial, how some problems just hung about like a bad smell? He knitted his brows.

  “The wedding?”

  Meg must have thought him beyond honorable though. Or was it the fact there hadn’t been a whisper about him and a woman in years? As for her, that ice-fire, as he’d already glimpsed when she sat like a seal with a pudding on its head a few days ago, the ice-fire, was something of an act.

  He was mistaken to think this woman wasn’t afraid of anything. He’d never have thought so the other day when she stood in the castle hall and faced the turd down. Why else would she wipe her palms down her gown though? Or why else would the color sink from her face, leaving it white as the snow he’d found her in?

  “Of course.” One thing that could be counted on was Meg’s color didn’t sink. But maybe she blushed for him and the situation he found himself in. His brother’s betrothed. “That is why you’re here isn’t it, my lady? In Lochalpin, anyway, to marry Ewen? You know, I’m only surprised he never came here to ask Callm for help.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t. Right?” The hell. Speak? He had no damn choice but to speak, from the very bottom of his boots at that.

  “Or that you didn’t know he was looking, Callm?”

  “Well, I did. I did know, Princess. Shug told me that first morning. But by then—”

  “You did?” Meg cocked an eyebrow. “Well, not that it matters, now the weather’s eased a little, you’ll be able to send word up the glen. Or maybe the wedding could even take place here? Of course, it’s a bit untidy, but nothing Ewen’s not used to.”

  Callm felt his heart clench like a fist in his chest. Standing here was about as much as he could manage when he was conflicted by the fact that most women would have press-ganged their way to the altar by now.